001 — ANNIVERSARY GIFT
1224 Words
JOSEPHINE
My boyfriend buys me a gift every time he hits me. Sometimes he gets me flowers and jewelry. Other times, he buys me dresses and expensive shoes I'm too scared to wear outside in case I ruin them. It sounds bad when I say it like that.
Eddie is actually very sweet when he isn't angry. And most of the time, his anger is my fault anyway. Tonight is our anniversary, so I plan to make everything perfect. Dinner. Candles. His favorite red dress.
And the other thing. Eddie says I'm terrible at blowjobs, which is embarrassing because how hard can it possibly be?
Apparently, very.
I have spent the past week practicing with bananas and cucumbers while watching as many educational videos as I can find. I nearly choked on a banana yesterday, but I think I finally understand the tongue part.
He is going to be so proud of me. Or at least less disappointed. But right now, I have a bigger problem.
One of the diamond earrings Eddie bought me rolled under the bed while I was getting dressed. He will be furious if I lose it. Not because he cares about the money. Eddie has plenty of money.
It is the principle. He says I never appreciate anything he gives me.
I drop to my knees and press my cheek against the carpet. There it is. A tiny sparkle beneath the bed frame, just beyond my fingertips.
I stretch my arm farther. My shoulder jams against the side of the bed.
"Come on," I whisper.
My fingers scrape uselessly across the floor. I try turning sideways, but my chest and stomach refuse to cooperate. Sometimes, being curvy is a blessing.
This is not one of those times.
"Damn it."
I reach harder until my shoulder feels ready to pop from its socket. Then an idea lights up inside my head.
A stick! I just need something long and thin. I sit back on my heels and look around the room. My eyes land on the broom beside the wardrobe.
Perfect.
Just then, my phone vibrates on the nightstand. It's Eddie!
Grinning, I answer the call and bring it to my ear.
"Hi."
"Did you take your medication?" His voice is clipped. I recognize his mood right away. He's upset.
My fingers tighten around the phone. "I was about to."
He exhales sharply and I flinch. "I'm sorry. I forgot," I whisper, a knot in my throat.
"Make sure not to touch the fridge. I don't want you adding any more weight. You would look great at my cousin's wedding wearing the dress I just bought you if you do as I say—"
"You bought me a new dress?" I perk up, smiling.
"Take your medicine, baby," he says and hangs up, my smile slowly fading.
Letting out a sigh, I dump the phone on the bed. Then I grab the broom, dropping to my knees as I slide the handle under the bed, and carefully drag the earring towards me.
Something else comes with it.
A black folder. It scrapes across the floor and stops against my knee. I stare at it, pursing my lips. My name is written across the front in Eddie's handwriting.
Underneath it are three words.
[JOSEPHINE'S DORMANCY PROTOCOL.]
For several seconds, I only stare at it. My knees press into the dusty floorboards. One hand grips the edge of the mattress while the other hovers above the thick black folder, too frightened to touch it.
A chill slips down my spine. Outside the bedroom, the apartment remains silent.
Eddie told me he was going to the gym. He kissed my forehead before leaving and told me he'll be back in two hours.
My heart pounds painfully as I reach for the folder.
The tips of my fingers brush the cover. Of course nothing happens. My condition only reacts to living skin. Paper cannot feel pain. Paper cannot scream. People do.
I stare at the folder, uneasy. It is too clean to have been beneath the bed for long.
Taking a deep breath, I pull it onto my lap and open it. The first page is a photograph of me sleeping. The picture was taken recently. I know because I am wearing the pink nightdress Eddie bought me last month.
Someone has drawn a black circle around the inside of my wrist. Beneath the photograph, Eddie has written:
No visible mark. Subject remains dormant.
Subject?
My fingers shake as I turn the page.
Another photograph.
This one was taken outside my university library. Another follows. Me sitting alone in class. Some of these pictures were taken before I met him.
Suddenly, air refuses to come into my lungs.
No. That cannot be right. Eddie and I started dating three years ago. The photograph in my hand is dated almost five years ago.
Three photographs are clipped together. Three men.
Riven, stepping out of a black car with that cold, unreadable expression.
Denzel, leaving a fighting arena with blood staining his shirt.
Zahkhar, smiling directly into the camera as though he knew someone was watching.
My stepbrothers. I have not seen them in years. Not since I left the academy.
Why does Eddie have their photographs?
I turn the page. Blood tests. Prescription records. Charts covered in words I do not understand.
A handwritten note at the bottom catches my eye.
[Emotional dependency successful. Subject no longer attempts contact with others.]
My stomach knots tight as I slap a hand over my mouth.
This is not real. Eddie loves me. He takes care of me and keeps me safe.
My gaze falls to the bruises fading around my wrist.
Safe. The word suddenly feels like it's mocking me.
Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to put everything back and pretend I never found it. That is what I am good at.
Pretending his temper is just stress. Pretending the locked doors are for my safety. Pretending he does not squeeze my arms hard enough to bruise whenever I disobey him.
My hand closes around another note. I unfold it.
[Do not allow her to return home or to the academy. If the seal awakens, terminate her immediately.]
A small sound escapes my throat, my vision blurring. Terminate? My boyfriend has instructions to kill me?
A floorboard creaks in the hallway, and I freeze. The apartment goes completely silent again.
My pulse hammers in my ears.
Eddie is at the gym.
I repeat it inside my head, but I no longer believe it.
Slowly, I lower the note. A thin strip of light stretches beneath the bedroom door. A shadow blocks it.
My blood runs cold. The door handle begins to move.
Quickly, I shove the folder beneath the bed and curl the note into my fist. The bedroom door creaks open.
Eddie stands in the doorway. He is not wearing gym clothes. He wears black trousers and a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. His blond hair is combed away from his face. Not a single strand is out of place.
His gym bag hangs from one hand. The other is covered by a black glove. He looks from my face to the bed.
Then he smiles softly.
"Did you find what you were looking for, baby?"
- Writer
